


to keep the light

by allieteration



Category: Endless Summer (Visual Novel)
Genre: Choices, Choices: Stories You Play - Freeform, Endless Summer - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Playchoices - Freeform, Time Travel, Visual Novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 03:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17841740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allieteration/pseuds/allieteration
Summary: in this dynamic long-form adventure, the endless summer catalysts and kele travel back in time with the anachronists and the clockmaker's aid to world war ii poland to unearth the light and save the world from impending darkness.





	to keep the light

**Author's Note:**

> to keep the light is my baby, plain and simple. it burgeoned as a gem of an idea whilst reading in my hands by jennifer armstrong and irene gut-opdyke last year, a riveting tale of a holocaust rescuer. being an avid world war ii geek, and originally a screenplay, i wanted to incorporate my preferred choices series with my preferred history era to make something adventurous and action-packed. i wanted to challenge myself to do the uttermost extensive and vivacious long-form piece i have accomplished to date. whether i achieved this or otherwise is up to you—the reader. in any event, i hope you are taken away to other worlds. as sean gayle once declared, “somebody’s gotta save the world, alaska.”
> 
> ps. my apologies for the awkward spacing throughout and the rough german and polish sentences; i couldn't find a translator! bear with me.

  **THE** noontide sunlight battered down unto sunkissed freckles like cream cheese frosting slathered unto freshly-baked red velvet cake, undulations of tropical island humidity pulsating through simmering veins.  The luscious exotic foliage brushed against their skinned knees, stroking them with a sweet-tempered kiss of nature. The bioluminescent flora emanating sapphires and fuschias reflected against their irises, orchestrating an enchanting lagoon.  Sean Gayle’s almond eyes narrowed towards the horizon whilst his flank environed him with Alaska aboard as his co-pilot. With expectant glances looming like tempest clouds above the twosome, Sean halted in his tracks with Alaska following suit, and soon, the Catalysts and Kele ensued, soles gumming to the nurtured soil.  Pirouetting to face his band of misfits, Sean cleared his throat, forehead beaded with sweat droplets, and encouraged, “Varyyn said eighty degrees west of the mountain line and we should be approximately where they want to meet us. You’re doing great, everybody.”

     Jake, however, was indignant, rolling his eyes at Sean’s perceivable optimism and at the arduousness of their travels.  His mid-neck-length chestnut tresses were saturated with briny sweat, adhering to his neck. He appeared famished—they all did, and as a result, morale amongst them was notably low.  Facetiously, Jake questioned, “Yeah, thanks, _Coach_.  What do they want to do with us, anyway?  I thought our case with ‘em was closed.”

     Diego broadened his shoulders, suddenly threatened by Jake’s dubiousness of Varyyn’s instruction.

     “If Varyyn says it’s important, it’s important.  He wouldn’t throw a wild goose chase at us when he knows we have bigger fish to fry,” Diego affirmed, steadfast in his defending of his beloved partner.

     With fervor, and pummeling her spear into the terrain with each step, Estela interjected, “This is precisely _my_ point.  I don’t understand why we don’t focus on this issue _after_ we finally squash Rourke, that slimy bug.”

     There was a hushed agreeance amongst the Catalysts—that Everett Rourke, at all costs, must be defeated.  The weight of his title was bore on the backs of them, bruising their Hope. Raj, of course, was ever the bright-eyed idealist, and his benevolence was an attribute he divvied up to his companions, “How ‘bout we all sing a song?   _She’ll be comin’ ‘round the mountain when she comes!  She’ll be—”_

     Zahra extended her index finger out to Raj’s plump lips, muffling his melody, much to his bewilderment and dismay.

     “No, absolutely not,” she urged matter-of-factly, monotonous and expressionless in her idiosyncratic way.

     “But I didn’t—” Raj started, frowning, bushy brow furrowed.

 **“No,”** Zahra asserted, lean arms at her sides, meaning business in her intonation.

     Although Raj was readying another rebuttal, Alaska intervened, suspecting the redundancy of the argument.  The tropic breeze jostled her pin-straight locks from her azure eyes as she suggested, “How does a meal sound?”  The rush of a waterfall from nearby replenished the ominous atmosphere, and the aroma of an unsalted cascade of aquamarine overwhelmed their nostrils.  Alaska’s eyes were alight as she continued, “We can make a pit stop at this waterfall over the hill and go all in.”

     Raj, the culinary artisan of the troop, was, naturally, enthusiastic about this proposition, and, inspirited, exclaimed, “A man can always get behind some chow!”

     A giggle bubbled up Quinn’s throat and through pursed lips, delighted by her friends’ newfangled earnestness, and she rejoined, “We have plenty of coconuts to feed this island, that’s for sure.”

     With an effervescence they hadn’t emanated since their early daybreaks at The Celestial, the twelve of them, including the adrift Kele, congregated around a campfire enkindled by Grace, utilizing her thick-rimmed glasses to set their collected tinder of befallen palm leaves ablaze.  Some reclined atop and against boulders while others waded in the invigorating pool beneath the waterfall, awaiting their meals, which were being tended to by a contented Raj and his sous chef, Quinn.

     Sean and Alaska had unearthed a temporary home a handful of feet away from the commotion, overseeing their party and their laughter and banter— _at last_ —splashes pervading their eardrums and the fragrance of grilled pineapple and fish permeating their environment.  Alaska, a soft grin plastered unto her face, sipped on coconut milk, immersed in quietude. Sean recognized this, and with concern, remarked, “I know that look.”

     Alaska wrenched herself from her reverie, grappling with her daydream, straightening her posture, glancing up, aligning her eyes with his.  Her expression, chagrined; she was defensive against his observation.

     “What?  I don’t have a look,” she retorted, Sean smirking at her predictable headstrong iron-willedness.

     “It’s the kind of look where you’re thinking about everybody else, but not yourself,” he glossed, his now-dehydrated coconut performing a balancing act on his bare knee.

     “You know I hate being psychoanalyzed.  What if I was lost in this rare moment of happiness like everybody else?” she inquired, fingertips shoveling into the balmy sand with anxiousness.

      “I know you, Alaska.  You’re never ‘lost’; you’re always thinking about something, strategizing our next play.  You’d make a solid football captain, if you ask me,” he jested, reaching out to delicately and good-naturedly punch her bicep.  “Now, what’s up, buttercup?”

     She relented, impatient with herself and her circumstances, shoulders slouching forward in vanquishment.  She exhaled exasperatedly, for Sean had thwarted her makeshift boldness, and despairingly answered, “Worrying.  About what this means for us.”

     “Elaborate?” he leaned in, closing the chasm between the pair, gaze tender and empathetic in the way that Sean Gayle inherently was.

     “Estela’s right, Sean.  The longer we stall going head-to-head with Rourke, the more people get hurt.  The more Time is affected. The more we lose our shot at going home,” she lamented, demeanor heavy like elephant footsteps.  Blistering teardrops of fury welled along her waterline, face scrunched in frustration.

     He waited a beat before murmuring in his surprisingly high-pitched tone, “Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell the others?”

     “You know I wouldn’t snitch on you,” Alaska half-heartedly riposted as Sean stroked a length of hair away from her face and behind her elfin ear.

     “I think…I’ve given up on going home,” he divulged—and was swiftly met with Alaska recoiling from him, appalled.

     “How can you say that?!” she shrieked, livid, and now on her feet, her complexion scarlet.  Her volume was amplified; she was always expeditious to react.

     “It’s not how it sounds—” Sean was interrupted, skyscraping to his feet to greet her at her level.  He was strikingly even-tempered; a juxtaposition to his girlfriend. He gracefully maneuvered through her outbursts, distinguishing that her road was paved with good intentions.  Being leaders to their group of apocalyptic stereotypes occasionally influenced them negatively emotionally and mentally, Alaska the utmost.

     “Tell me how it is then!  Because right now, we have a camp of ten sitting behind us that still believes in the possibility that they can hold their families in their arms again,” she demanded, muscles taut with a strained headspace as she gestured toward the Catalysts and Kele.

     Sean’s stomach pretzeled into itself at the mention of family; his mother, donning his monarchical purple #5 jersey at his football games and scrimmages as quarterback for Hartfeld University, her cheers thundering with admiration and pride for her son.  He reminisced on her vanilla perfume; her brunette bob knotted back in a half-updo when she shed light on how to tune up his first car; her cacophonous shouts at the television for her (well, Sean’s) preferred pro football teams on Sundays. He indisputably missed her—and yet, he had already let her go.  He, coolheaded and unflustered, justified, “I mean that this is our now. I’ve spent too much time on this island obsessing over next moves, next injuries, next _death_.  It’s almost catapulted me off of the edge.  Would I like to go home? Absolutely. I miss my mom more than anything in the whole wide world.  But I’m sacrificing that to keep us safe while we focus on this mission, this now. And that’s to find the Anachronists.”

     Alaska averted her eyes from him to Raj serving dinner on a dilapidated island silver platter, a triumphant smile luminous upon his face; to Diego and Michelle having a water fight; to Kele weaving together a floral tiara for Quinn; to Grace and Aleister identifying a species of berry to Craig, who was threatening to pop them between his teeth in spite of, and especially because of, their hallucinogenic properties.  Amidst this, Alaska witnessed her _home_ , her sense of belonging and realness within her labyrinthine cosmos.  When she reflected on her experiences at Hartfeld U and within her hometown… _nothing_.  She pondered whether this was why she yearned for “home” with zealousness, aside from the obvious of helping her friends; that perhaps she was crusading to be introduced to what awaited her.

      “You know what the worst part is?” she enquired, finally peering through her eyelashes to meet Sean’s eyes.  “I don’t even know what I’m going home to.”

      “What do you mean?” he countered, holding their interlocked gaze.

      “It’s…strange.  I can’t remember much about ‘home’.  It’s like it wasn’t there to begin with,” she whispered sheepishly as Sean cocked his head in befuddlement like a mutt would, his face contorting quizzically.

      “Alaska, what—” he started, but was hampered by Craig waving his hands in the sky with ferocity, signaling a disturbance.

      “Yo, lovebirds!  We got company!” he hollered, and Alaska dashed off toward him to evade any questions, with Sean watching her in bafflement before shadowing her.

      The twelve of them congregated along the threshold into a woodland territory as a flock of tropical birds fled their lounge amongst the treetops, leaves rustling with ulterior movement.  Estela lifted her spear, rearing its razor-edged head in the direction of the ruckus. Collectively, they held their breath, until at last, a familiar woman in a pirate hat emerged.

      “Oh, _mon amis_!  It is merely I!” Yvonne’s welcoming grin dissipated into a gasp, surrendering, startled by their hostility.

      “Yvonne!” Grace exclaimed, scuttling forth with her friends trailing behind her to envelope her in a myriad of embraces, her olive skintone glistening and ardent hazelnut eyes glinting like pouring into warm honey into lavender tea.

     “What a warm welcome to be greeted by friends with!” she laughed sweetly, her squeal like helium suffusing through a balloon as it expanded around them.

     “Always a pleasure to see you, Yvonne.  What brings you to these parts?” Alaska queried, her lips tugged into a smile as the remainder of them permitted Yvonne with her space.

     “Why, the whispers, of course!” Yvonne answered, insinuating that the Catalysts and Kele should be aware of the island’s grapevine.  The twelve of them were merely clustered around her, muted by perplexity and unknowingness. They exchanged glances as Yvonne gave them a pointed and critical eyeful.

     “You’ve heard about this?  From who?” Michelle prodded, arms crisscrossed across the chest of her blush pink blouse.

     “The Garden’s _gens_ always know, Michelle.  Is this not obvious?” Yvonne responded with the same implication that this was common knowledge.

    “Either way, Jackie Sparrow, we could use the backup goin’ into this, if you want to tag along,” Jake offered with his quintessential wit, the others nodding along in assent.

    “Ah, but a pirate never follows; she only leads!” Yvonne declared, pumping her fist upward and shepherding the Catalysts and Kele into the jungle toward the mountain vista.  They, unspoken, conceded and tailed behind her into their voyage.

✁✁✁

 

    “They said we were to meet at sunset, did they not?” Estela interrogated with a harshness that complemented the volatile sanguine and clementine skyline, the lengthened clouds illustrated in a golden pigment like metallic paint.  The sundown air was crisp, but the dewiness persisted, gripping the cotton cloth of tank tops and tees against sticky shoulders and stomachs. They were faraway from the ocean, and yet, salted waves could be smelled for miles. The moon, peeking into the twilight, reigned in the tide, and shone down in place of its paramour, the Sun.

     “Technically, Varyyn said ‘when the sun and the ocean kiss’,” Diego clarified, shivering in his distressed purple button-up.  He smoothed his shoulder-length cocoa-colored mane with his palm, his eyes peeled for any foot traffic.

     “They’re transcendent time lords from the generic brand Bermuda Triangle.  Who knows how they define Time,” Michelle retorted; in spite of her cheekiness, she had brought up a well-founded argument: that the Anachronists were unpredictable.  The Catalysts and Kele had only ever crossed paths with them on occasions they could tally on one hand, and Yvonne’s relationship with them was uncharted altogether.

     “They’re a degree above Doctor Who, and coming from me, that means a lot,” Grace noted with a humorous gravity.

     Alaska chuckled along with Sean at the comment—but her smirk abruptly dissipated into a stone-cold, thousand-yard stare.  Unblinkingly, she announced to him, “I can feel the rift.”

     Sean, expectedly, was mystified by this seemingly unnatural entity that had suddenly enveloped its disembodied arms around his ladylove, dominating her with its phantom tug.  As he opened his mouth to pose, “What?” as a question, a figure with multicolored hair and an intricate set of glassware manifested before them through what was a tear in the space-time continuum.  It glimmered with a viridescent heat; yet it vanished as swiftly as it came.

     “For future reference, our kind acknowledges and respects Time, but we are not governed by it,” the Clockmaker enlightened, her demeanor pragmatic.  On either side of her, two Anachronist Vaanti were positioned defensively—or, offensively—their appearances eccentric and vaguely steampunk, but with an avant-garde interpretation.  The Clockmaker’s veiled eyes rested on each of the Catalysts individually, then Kele and Yvonne, her visor, which resembled that of a hospital mask cloaking her mouth and nose, guaranteeing the impossibility of deciphering her expressions.

     The presence of the Anachronists rendered everybody silent, except for Kele, who puffed his chest with an inspiring masculinity and observed, “Seems like you folk aren’t ‘governed’ by much.”

     The Clockmaker was unembellished in her reply, but for once, was at a loss for words, “We are not—by anything.  We scheduled the limit to your human understanding, which although is perceived by your arrogant kind as vast, is very, erm…”

     “Inadequate?” Aleister proposed, lips tightened into a disgusted frown, his blanched skin transparent beneath the moonshine.

     “For lack of a better word,” the Clockmaker nodded approvingly, her escorts snickering beneath their breath.

     Zahra chimed in with her two cents, her mouth tweaked into a self-congratulatory grin, “That’s why I swing towards tech.  Software is innately invincible.”

     “The only ‘invincible’ thing, Catalyst, is Time,” the Clockmaker contended with a bone-chilling dynamism, her fingertips compressed together before her as if she were pondering something profound.

     Alaska vexatiously sighed with agitation, her voice suddenly barking above the commotion, “You didn’t meet us all the way out here to chitter-chatter about how moronic humans are, I’m guessing?”  She shot the Clockmaker a curt, pointed glance.

     The Clockmaker’s chin ascended, her sea foam shoulders squaring with a noteworthy balance, and she pronounced, “As a matter of fact, no.  I have something far superior and more pertinent.”

     An anticipation was suspended within their gloaming as the Clockmaker swiveled to confer with her reinforcements.  The Catalysts shifted their weight uncomfortably, and Kele and Yvonne exchanged apprehensive glances.

     Raj, who appeared nauseated, blurted, “Does anybody have the gnarly feeling about this that I do right now?”

     “Spill it, Clockmaker,” Sean hissed, identifying his fleet’s trepidation and alarm and becoming protective, his stance on the frontlines of the cluster of friends.

     The Clockmaker huffed out a breath before pivoting back to face him, her pixie ears twitching.  “We foresaw a prophecy in another timeline,” she commenced. “You, the chosen twelve, must rescue La Huerta from Darkness.”

     “Uh, like figurative darkness?  Or ‘Darkness’ darkness?” Diego quizzed; although, the lion’s share of him didn’t covet an answer.

     “I have little room for figurative theatrics, Diego,” she replied uncompromisingly.

     Quinn stepped forward, emboldened by the electrically emphatic energy of their surroundings, the mountain range swathed in a starlit shroud, and enquired,  “What does this mean?”

     “The Light has been stolen from our sky by an unknown force; the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars are nowhere to be found.  I have sent my comrades out across Time in search of an era where they may have concealed it. However, nothing has come of our hunt.  I have had to develop falsified versions of these Light sources; ones that won’t last. You must understand that the Darkness will spread parasitically until it is the host of this planet.  Our kind and your’s alike will freeze into oblivion throughout the continuum. You are, regrettably, our only hope,” the Clockmaker detailed, her armor glinting beneath the artificial celestial brilliance, the Catalysts, Yvonne, and Kele latched onto her every utterance.

     Everybody was collaborative in their pendulum of silence, it swaying with each hitched breath, until Diego murmured, “ _Oh my god.”_

     After receiving inquisitive glances from his peers, he continued, clarifying, “It’s Episode VI all over again!  You’re Leia and we’re Obi Wan!”

     Alaska squeezed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger like a garden-fresh lemon, and pressed, “We have to do _what_?”

     “You must keep the Light,” the Clockmaker reiterated.  “It is the only way.”

     Craig huffed and bellowed, “I’m startin’ to get _real tired_ of this island.”

           “ _Starting?_ Jesus Christ, Craig!  I’ve been tired of it since we landed on this godforsaken slab of dirt and realized The Celestial was empty!” Michelle bickered, throwing her arms up.

           Hostility spidered out throughout the fourteen of them like a pandemic infecting the globe, and Craig and Michelle were patient zero.  The atmosphere thickened until it became

           “Why are you yelling at _me_ ?  We _should_ be turning our attention to these ‘Anachronists’ or whatever the hell you call yourselves and questioning why we have to be your errand boys!” he riposted, upper body muscles flexed and intimidating.

           “Give is one good reason why we should trust you,” Zahra added, aligning with Craig, and receiving nods from her peers.

           The Clockmaker possessed unparalleled patience in the face of distrust and doubtfulness, “I understand your mortal frustrations.  However, without the stars, we are doomed. Our ability to exist within Time’s fluidity...it will cease. We will go dark. For eternity.”

           “That’s a, uh…pretty solid reason there, guys,” Diego assented to the Clockmaker’s persuasion.

           In the interim of whispered grousing from everybody, Sean addressed Alaska, tucking a strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear like wind folding into wildflowers, and while studying her dotingly, he asked, “Alaska?  You’ve been quiet. What do you think?”

           There was a hush that descended, even from the Anachronists, who expectantly stared at her as her vortex of deliberation narrowed into a crystal clear message of purpose and determination: “I think we should do it.”

           Unfortunately, her fellow travellers vehemently disagreed, detonating into an explosion of controversy and name-calling.

_“That’s it.  This island’s officially gotten to her; she’s lost it.”_

_“No way I’m being at the Anachronists’ beck and call.  Those assholes can kiss my f_ —”

_“Jesus, we can never catch a break!”_

A commanding voice, however, fractured through the pandemonium and strung it up in masterful, pin-drop silence.  “EVERYBODY, QUIET!” Grace bellowed, heads angling towards her, capturing their attention.

After a beat, she resumed with her calmed authoritativeness, “Alaska’s right.  Our primary focus is to stop Rourke from his monstrosities, but if we leave this here, right now, unattended...we’ll be freezing out Rourke, but we’ll be thawing out humankind for centuries.  If we even survive this, that is.”

Quinn nodded as she bracketed her arms with Grace’s, announcing, coolheaded, “Who else is with us?”

“We ain’t splittin’ up after all this time,” Jake huffed, his efforts thwarted, but understandably.  “As much as I want Rourke’s head on a pike...I’m in.”

“D’aw, I love you angel-hair spaghettis too much to stay behind.  Count me in, too,” Raj yanked his neighbors—Yvonne, Kele, and Estela—in to cradle them adoringly, much to their dismay.

Those who remained agreed, although several, reluctantly, and the Clockmaker resurfaced forward at the coda of their quarrel to blueprint their impending hours hunting for the Light.

“I have prepared reinforcements to send you into a rift that will land you in Western Europe, 1941.  We have period-appropriate outfits available,” she gestured towards her auxiliaries, one of which unfurled a gaping rift, piercing it with one leg, then another, and returned moments later with a duffel of button-down, collared dresses, and suits emblazoned with vests, ties, and a complementary fedoras.

 _“Woah,”_ Diego breathlessly mumbled, his and his peers’ jaws on the ground, awestruck.

“That’s a year before I was drafted.  You folks best hope we land in Allied territory,” Kele ruffled his curls with his fingertips, expression grave.

“At least we have an advantage with two veterans on our side,” Jake nodded assuredly, fist-bumping Kele, who was perplexedly unresponsive to the act.  Jake waved his hand dismissively, lips pursed.

“We need to game-plan before we make our move,” Sean articulated as he and those encircling him costumed themselves, his respective suit charcoal and pinstriped.

“Agreed, bro!  Just like the good ol’ days!  Only, y’know...more of a risk of getting murdered by a Nazi,” Craig enthusiastically began, his voice trailing onto tenterhooks and uneasy laughter.  He planted his Hamburg cap onto his head, fingers corkscrewed around his suspenders, anxious sweat beginning to culminate on his forehead.

“I do not think you are grasping the imminence of these circumstances.  You will be traveling in approximately thirty seconds. Search for a woman named Lena Kowalczyk,” the Clockmaker instructed, unenclosing another magenta and cerulean rift.

“Oh, _bonne chance les amis_ !   _Protége nous!_ ” Yvonne hollered over the snaking wind encircling the rift like a slithering python, waving frantically.

“Buckle up, kids.  This ride on the Millenium Falcon is gonna be bumpy,” Diego nodded as though accepting his ultimate fate, tugging on the last of his era-befitting garb.

One following another, they strode through the threshold of the shimmering rift, leaving an emotional Yvonne behind with the Clockmaker and her cronies.

 

✁✁✁

_OOF._

Together, the Catalysts alighted atop one another in a heaping pile with sniveling protests from those mangled at its foundation.

“Ugh, remind me to kick that Clockmaker’s ass when we get back,” Michelle groused, smoothing out her ivory floral dress fashioned with scarlet roses and olive leaflets.  Her palms were shrouded in silk gloves with lace sewn unto its hem. Pearls were fastened around her neck and onto her earlobes, and her feet were clad with pumps in a hazelnut leather.

Around her, everyone arose to stand, eyes darting left, right; up, down, absorbing the overseas region that they were vertical on.  The atmosphere _felt_ antiquated, a smog from outlying factories polluting their panting lungs.  Everything, however, appeared to be within normalcy; Scots pine and silver birch trees towered over the fringe of the prairie they had crash-landed into; black storks chirped melodiously, swooping across the meadow as if in greeting to the Catalysts and Kele.

“ _Holy_ —” Alaska started, but was interrupted by Grace, who stupefied her companions by cursing:

 _“Shit!_ We actually _time-traveled!  We really did it!”_

Alaska erupted into a fit of snickers, inciting giggles from the others; a blue moon moment.  The wintertide rays emitted enough warmth through the dense clouds that their shivers were restrained, but nevertheless, the frosted air nibbled at their noses like a rabbit burrowed in a warren within a snowbank, gnawing on buds from bushes.  The terrain beneath them was encrusted in patches of packed snowfall, and the wildlife hibernated, sheltered in makeshift dens in the corners of the timberland.

“Based on geographical indications, it looks like we’ve surfaced in Warsaw, Poland.  Well, what used to be, that is,” Grace notified after composing herself, jostling her hands into the pockets sewn unto the front of her violet dress, a coordinated fabric belt cinching her waist.

“‘Used to be’?” Quinn queried with a distant voice, too dumbfounded by her surroundings and reality to concentrate.

“It’s a hell of a conflict,” Kele pipes in with his hands assertively clutching his hips, saturated with conviction as a result of his familiarity with World War II and its inner-workings.  “Once upon a time, there was a German-Soviet Nonaggression Pact. It saved the behinds of Hitler and Stalin; they agreed to equally split Poland down the middle like an apple pie. Turns out, unsurprisingly, that fell through.”

“Germany and the Soviets spend the remainder of World War II pushing from the eastern and western fronts to occupy Poland.  In the meantime, the Polish peoples are enslaved, and the Jews suffer in dozens of ghettos before being either massacred or carted to death camps,” Aleister elucidated, accent exuberant as he did a calculating panoramic gaze of the landscape fencing them in.

“How peachy keen,” Jake sarcastically remarked, unable to conceal expressing his shudder towards waltzing onto clashing enemy turf.

“Where do we start?  Our only lead is the name ‘Lena Kowalczyk’,” Sean prompted after a beat of tyrannizing silence amongst them.

Alaska cleared her throat, tilting her head toward a conspicuous pathway plotted along the countryside through the weathered grass.  Forthrightly, and as though she had intelligence on where to go that they didn’t, she directed, “Follow the yellow brick road.”

The consensus was shrugs implying that they didn’t have a more refined tactic strategized for their expedition, and therefore, they didn’t have another choice other than to listen to Alaska.  Thus, they trudged through the powdery snowfall in a single-file line along the narrow footpath, shivering at the squalls of the wintertide while hypervigilant toward any clamoring that may have signaled jeopardy.  The lion’s share of the noises, however, were merely infant chipmunks squeaking at uncoordinated fawns playfully, dashing circles around one another while their mothers looked on.

Soon, a humble skyline with a monumental hospital as the uttermost sizable structure came into view.  Environing what remained were ruins of what once was—people, elderly and toddling, rummaged through wreckage for belongings, both human and inanimate.  Even the hospital appeared scorched from air raid bombardments. Nazi flags yielding the notorious swastika were undulating in the currents of bone-chilling air everywhere within eyesight; from establishments; from households; from the armbands of the men patrolling the compound.  There was a flabbergasted stillness amongst the Catalysts while Kele appeared stone-cold, reverting to a militarized conduct.

Recognizing that they couldn’t be stationary, jaws slackened, forevermore, he took initiative and began asking around furtively in beginner’s Polish and German for Lena Kowalczyk, who was said to be a doctor.  Soaring under the radar of the Nazi guards, they were pointed in the direction of the towering hospital.

Their luck had been milked of its sustenance, for when they approached the entrance, two domineering watchman stepped in front of the entryway.  They exchanged glances as the Catalysts and Kele halted, muscles taut with anxiety.

“ _Papiere_ ,” the guard on the left demanded, sticky sweet caramel irises narrowing.

“Uh, _wir sind hier für_ Lena Kowalczyk,” Kele pronounced, straightening his shoulders in faux assertiveness.

“ _Papiere_ ,” the right-hand patrol reiterated with amplified authority.

Jake surveyed the dilapidated zone, the avenues cleared of pedestrians, and abruptly elbowed the left-sided Nazi watchman while, Sean readily catching on, tackled the second opponent, locking him in a sleeper hold.

“ _Dope_ ,” Zahra uttered approvingly.

Without hesitation, Jake and Sean hauled the unconscious twosome to the side of the hospital’s framework where Jake exchanged his street clothes for a uniform with a soldier.

      “It feels dirty wearin’ this, but if I cart you misfits around as arrestees, nobody will think twice,” Jake acknowledged the abhorrence of him carrying a symbol that was representative of hatred and intolerance.  “Malfoy, it’s your time to shine.”

      “Pardon me?” Aleister retorted, arms tucked into his chest.  “I will be doing no such thing.”

      “Jake’s right, Aleister.  There were English soldiers recruited by Nazis; it would be believable,” Grace gestured toward the incapacitated guard at their feet.

      “ _Bloody_ —fine.  Be prepared for us to burn in Hell for this,” Aleister conceded, grumbling with protests as he yanked on the ensemble.

      “Hey, at least we’re leavin’ these asswipes to freeze out here in their underwear,” Jake shrugged; although he rubbed at his neck, unmistakably at odds with their circumstances.  “Let’s roll.”

 

✁✁✁

 

      Inside, nurses in button-up gowns with what appeared to be white aprons and corresponding hats engulfing their delicate, yet fiery physiques hastened around the corridors and into “rooms” sectioned off by rolling patient privacy panels.  The doctors weren’t far behind, bandaging and medicating the wounded and feeble.

      “Which of them do you think is her?” Diego questioned as Aleister prodded him forward with feigned dominance.

      Each of them observed the bustling mayhem before them until a woman with fair skin and olive irises suturing a gash on a forearm caught Michelle’s eye.

      “That one,” Michelle nodded toward the woman whose brunette tresses were curled into a well-groomed French twist as she labored tirelessly over howling patients.  “It’s blatant that she’s a phenomenal doctor. I should talk to her. Pretend to be a fellow physician.”

“Brushed up on your Polish lately, Michelle?” Zahra sardonically inquired.

Michelle rolled her eyes before snapping back, “I can say I was sent from America to help the people of Poland.”

“As much as I admire the idea, American didn’t involve themselves in World War II until Pearl Harbor: December 7th, 1941.  The calendars here read that it’s mid-November,” Grace explained with a sympathetic look.

“What’s a ‘Pearl Harbor’?” Kele confoundedly asked.  

“Erm, besides the point,” Aleister hurriedly brushed past the Time anomaly while everybody exchanged awkward glances.  “Much of this region of occupied Poland was speaking German anyway. Do you know any of that?”

Michelle’s self-assurance faltered, and she started, “I studied it in high school, but my memory is spotty—”

“Better make it work, Maybelline.  You’re our only shot here,” Jake interrupted, shouldering her forward toward the doctor.

“You can do this, Michelle.  We’ll be right here waiting for you,” Quinn encouraged with a meaningful expression, giving two thumbs-up as Aleister and Jake “escorted” the rest of the Catalysts and Kele to what was presumably a waiting area for the ill and injured.

Michelle straightened her spine, combing through her highlighted locks with her fingertips until it satisfactorily rested on her shoulders.  She chipped at her vivid fingernail polish before shaking her head at her diffidence. With a mammoth inhale, she strode forward toward the woman and introduced herself, “ _Guten tag, Fräulein Kowalczyk.  Ich bin ein neuer arzt auf einheit.”_

Lena didn’t lift her line of sight from her patient, whose flesh she was extracting shrapnel from.  Instead, she persisted diligently with her travail and asked, “ _Wie lautet dein Name?_ ”

          Michelle suddenly felt hives manifesting across her chest and neck.  From the outside, in, it was a conventional question—but she couldn’t gamble at Russian roulette and endanger herself, her friends, and the mission.  With racing thoughts obstructing her comprehension, she merely muttered, “Uh…”

         Lena eventually adjusted her gaze onto Michelle after not receiving an appropriate answer.  Sternly, she admonished, “ _Ich habe viele Patienten zu sehen. Stören Sie meine Arbeit nicht, indem Sie wie ein humpelnder Idiot da stehen_.”

         “I can’t look!” Raj exclaimed from his handcuffs, shutting his eyelids tighter than ballet slipper ribbons wrapped around an ankle.

         “Anybody have a clue what they’re saying?” Sean whispered, oblivious to the dialect.

         “Lena is essentially dragging Michelle through the mud.  We’re doomed,” Aleister pessimistically relayed the translation to his companions, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose from tension.

         Alaska backhanded Aleister’s bicep, to which he shot her an incredulous look.  She reminded him and the others that, “Michelle’s smarter than you give her credit for.  Give her a chance.”

        “I agree with Alaska.  She has to find her footing in this, and she’s more than capable,” Grace united with Alaska, her tone promising.

        Michelle was, in fact, competent, but unfortunately, her German was not—not to mention, she was running low on language and proper grammar she had learned.  Calmly, she replied to Lena with, “ _Maja.  Ich heisse Maja Nowak.  Sprichst du Englisch?_ ”

        Lena plucked the final piece of debris from her patient, and bandaged the affected skin.  “ _Ja_ ,” she nodded.  “I do not remember receiving notice of a new doctor.  Especially not one who is American.”

        Michelle scoffed, essaying to imitate a German accent, albeit comically, “I-I am not Ameri—”

        “You must think I am a _dummkopf_.  Your German is horrific,” Lena brusquely interjected, patting her patient gently on the back after the last bandage was applied.  She signed a document and concealed it within a folder of other paperwork, and hotfooted it toward the next patient requiring attention.

        “I’m not trying to be deceiving, Ms. Kowalczyk,” Michelle noted while on Lena’s heels.

        “Lena,” she curtly imparted, and greeted an elderly man with a fractured arm.

        “Erm, Miss Lena?” Michelle abashedly trialed the nickname, her voice peaking at the end of her sentence, signifying her skepticism.

        Lena exasperatedly sighed and, while scrawling notations in her folder, affirmed, “Just Lena.”

        “Right!” Michelle clasped her hands together with a nod, her flaxen hair buoyant with her movement.  “I’m sorry if I offended you. I desperately need help, and you’re the only one that can give it to me.”

        Lena slammed her file closed, and aggravatedly swiveled around toward Michelle, a n unforgiving gleam in her eye, and through gritted teeth, rejoined, “I am very busy with my medical practice.  Surely there is somebody else who can assist you in your endeavors,”

       “That’s the problem: there isn’t,” Michelle clarified, standing her ground against Lena’s tempestuous manner.  “Listen—my name’s Michelle. I have friends just around that bend waiting for us. If you could hear us out, it’d be a game-changer.  And after that, if you still don’t see any value in helping, then we’ll never bother you again.”

Lena’s eyes darted around the hospital dubiously as she clasped her hand around Michelle’s forearm, tugging her away from the multitude of patients and medical professionals to a secluded, clandestine sector of the space.  “Are you Jewish? Part of the _Widerstand_?  Both?” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Wh—” Michelle opened her mouth to reply.

“Answer the question.   _Quietly_ ,” Lena intervened, her profile dour.

“No.  Neither,” Michelle answered, reciprocating Lena’s austere attitude.

Lena scrutinized Michelle, unspeaking, her forehead creased with consideration that, to Michelle, was like a hieroglyph; indecipherable.

After what could have been seconds or minutes, Lena submitted, “Lead me to your people.”

 

✁✁✁

 

The Catalysts and Kele were congregated behind the hospital, where Lena guaranteed they would be out of the field of vision of any patrolmen.  Michelle and Lena were standing before a half-circle audience when Michelle acquainted the band with their newfangled source: “Everybody, this is Lena Kowalczyk.  Lena, this is—”

“Who are you?  What do you want?” she interrupted, dismissing Michelle’s pleasantries and cutting to the chase.

“Well, uh—” Alaska glanced at Sean, and he provided a heartening nod.  “That’s the hard part. We were sent to _you_ ; we don’t know what you have that we need.  Information? The solution?”

“‘Sent to me’?  By whom? What is this, Michelle?” Lena demanded, her body language defensive as she revolved around to face Michelle, brow acrimoniously wrinkled.

“We call them the Anachronists,” Sean chimed in, heedful of the volatility of opening the door for Lena into what they know.

“Uh, Golden Boy?  Can we all recovene for a minute?” Jake requested, stretching to place his palm on Sean’s broad shoulder.

“Please excuse us, Lena,” Alaska nodded toward Lena before marshaling into a tight-knit circle.  Lena threw her arms in the air, disgruntled, but remained where she stood.

      “What’s the problem?” Sean queried Jake, his voice hushed from Lena.

      “Look, this lady clearly has no idea who we are or what she’s needed for.  Explainin’ everythin’ to her might send her barrelin’ over the edge,” Jake heeded.

       “If she’s involved, she deserves to know the truth,” Quinn admonished.

       “As much as it pains me, I gotta agree with Jake,” Zahra concurred begrudgingly.  “Lena’s a badass, that much is obvious, but she looks terrified right now. Sorting through us being from the future, the Anachronists catapulting us through Time to get to here to get something out of her that neither of knows what that is—all of it might scare  her off. She might not even help us anyway.”

       Michelle was soundless throughout their debate, listening for a cue to provide her input; she proposed, “She asked me if I was apart of the _Widerstand_?  Isn’t that the Resistance?  I could say I lied and that we were sent by an underground subgroup associated with it?”

      “It’s a long shot, but it might work,” Alaska endorsed the scheme.

      “As long as she doesn’t scalpel us, I’m set.  Not gonna lie: she scares me,” Diego remarked, his expression confirming that he was, in fact, timorous of Lena and her ferocity.

      The Catalysts and Kele’s studies of one another indicated that they were in agreement.  Again, Michelle dominated the reigns of their stallion, and took their approach with Lena, “Lena, I have to confess something to you.  We are apart of the _Widerstand_ , but not in the way that you understand the Resistance.”

      “I cannot do this.  I must see my patients—” Lena frantically responded, whipping her head around as though she was being monitored.

      Sean identified her overwrought behavior, the ebony and violet bags underneath her eyes increasingly prominent.  In his signature coolheaded, sweet-tempered spirit, he lifted his hands and dulcetly contended, “Lena, please—we can explain.  The Anachronists that I mentioned before? We’re a, uh, sub-unit to your Resistance. We manage different parts of preserving communities throughout the war.”

      “It is not ‘my’ _Widerstand_.  I do not know what you are speaking of,” Lena contested uncompromisingly.

      Grace stepped forth from behind Raj and, a mere inches away from Lena, spoke up, “With all due respect, we know that that’s a lie.  You’re not the kind of person that would sit back while mass counts of people die preventably everyday.”

      “You _trottels_ !  Do you not understand what happens to those who protect the walking dead?  Myself, my command—we will be _massacred_!” Lena yelped in a whisper, her voice hoarse with strain.

       “We’re not here to expose you to your society,” Alaska reassured.  “We’re looking for something. Something special. It could determine who lives and who dies if it’s not uncovered.”

       Lena’s eyes were feral with fearfulness, but momentarily flickered with a tameness that allowed her to question, “What is this ‘something special’?”

       “It can be used as a weapon or a gift, Doctor.  Darkness or Light, if you may,” Kele explained matter-of-factly.

       “Darkness…or Light?” Lena mumbled to herself, suddenly pacified, her body softening from its rigidity.

       Quinn acknowledged Lena’s volatility by inquiring with placidity, “Does that…do you know where it could be?”

       “I do—but I must join you to find it.  Or ‘them’, I should say,” Lena obliged, and earned her puzzled glances from her hint at “them”.  “My friend, Azriel Margolis, in the ghetto…he will know.”

        “How did you meet Azriel?” Michelle asked, her inquisitiveness piqued.

It became apparent that Azriel was a sensitive subject matter for Lena; tender like the contusions she treats.  She breathed in richly before shedding light on who the mysterious man was, “We knew one another before this bloodshed.  I was terrified when Hitler’s regime started exterminating Jews…I didn’t know if he would survive. The ghetto he is in now…it does not have long.  My command has been plotting to retrieve him and his little niece, Liora. Those two—they are all they have left.”

      Before anybody could offer a response, Michelle intervened and recommended, “We could help you.  As payment for this.”

      Jake lifted his hands, nonplussed, and retorted, “Woah, what are we agreein’ to now?”

      Alaska offered her two cents, inadvertently commanding, gaining the attention of everybody surrounding her, “I agree with Michelle.  We have to talk to Azriel anyway. It’s common sense that we would free him, even if that means we leave with two extra bodies instead of one.”

     “This is risky enough as is, Alaska.  Nazi Germany isn’t known for its mercy and forgiveness if we get caught,” Zahra snorted.

     “We’ve gotten out of worse tangles before,” Sean pointed out, shrugging his sinewy shoulders, polo shirt figure-hugging around them.

      “If you could do this for me, for my—erm, for Azriel, and Liora…I would be indebted to you,” Lena admitted, sliding her foot around in the soil absentmindedly.

      “We won’t let ya down, ma’am,” Craig reassured, his feet shoulder-length apart, fists clasped behind his back authoritatively.

       “We may leave when my shift ends at dusk.  I will tell my compound that I am taking leftover medical supplies from the ghettos, per the order of Herr Major.  We will have to be swift; I cannot risk the officers questioning my whereabouts,” Lena assents, and with a sharp nod like a chef’s knife carving into a carcass, returns to her post.

        Everybody exchanged glances, fretful over what lied ahead.  In spite of this, there was a silent collective agreement that they would help Lena, no matter their cost.

       

✁✁✁

 

        “I gotta admit, guys: this makes me nervous.  I mean, we hardly know this lady, and now we’re rescuin’ her buddy from a WWII Jewish ghetto?  What if she flips on us? Gets us locked up in some German or Russian prison?” Jake paced back and forth across the soil sidewalk behind the hospital where they had rendezvoused beforehand, anxiously thrumming a hangnail like an acoustic guitar.

        Michelle was seated upon a boulder, her arms like origami across her chest to keep warm, and riposted, “For Mother Mary’s sake—Lena is _in love_ with Azriel.  Sure, saving him and Liora is a moral obligation, but she’s doing it because she would do anything for the man she loves.”

        Jake came to a standstill to face her and, with displeasure, quizzed, “How is that _our_ problem, Prom Queen?”

        “My thought would be that the more we help her, the more she’ll convince Az to cough up info on where we oughta look for the Light,” Raj chimed in, his meaningful contribution startling Jake and Michelle.

        “Raj is right.  This is the best play, everybody,” Sean acknowledged, clapping Raj’s shoulder encouragingly.

        Beneath the moonshine, Lena emerged from the shadows, at first an ebony silhouette, and then, a visibly petite, yet muscular frame.  Around them, flurries of snowfall trickled down from the nighttime sky, catching in their blinking eyelashes.

        “ _Cześć_ again, my, shall we say, co-conspirators?” Lena greeted them, an impish smirk playing upon her lips like they were music, and she, the conductor.

         “If this isn’t a remake of a Mission Impossible movie, I don’t know what is,” Diego shook his head reproachfully; albeit his eyes glistered with thrill.

         With a chuckle, Grace vocalized, “Lead the way, _Fräulein_!”

         Lena nodded agreeably, and set out to pilot into a backwoods trackway where a fresh carpet of snow crunched underneath their soles.  Everybody was hushed as they journeyed along, the tips of their noses ruby from the frosty chill of the air. Craig and Raj hosted a competition in trapping snowflakes on their tongues.

         Michelle had scuttled to the front flanks, plodding along beside Lena.

         “When did you realize you loved him, Lena?” she asked, lips curved into an all-knowing smirk.

         “Hm? Who is this ‘him’ you speak of?” Lena was unprepared for Michelle’s peering into her personal livelihood, and stumbled over her words.

         “Don’t play a fool with us!” Grace piped up, giggling like a schoolgirl at the mention of love interests. “ _Azriel!_ ”

         Lena instantaneously flushed at his name, and stuttered, “I, erm—I am never this flustered around strangers, nor friends.”

         “For so long, you’ve had to be the strength of your people.  I think you’re deserving of a moment of vulnerability,” Alaska admonished her, her eyes sympathetic, for she understood what it was like to lead with fortitude far better than her peers.

         “Azriel and I—we went to school together as children.  He was a mischievous boy, always getting into trouble and persuading me to be his accomplice.  We raised much hell in our younger years,” Lena reminisced, her expression irradiating a romantic nostalgia.  “Our families remained friends throughout adolescence, and when I decided to go to medical school and follow in the footsteps of my _tatús_ , Azriel insisted he join me in my travels.  He enrolled in an architectural program in the next city over; he had an eye for art of all sorts.

         ‘I paid no mind to him throughout my studies.  I was focused on becoming the best I could be, even if that meant leaving people I loved behind.  He entertained himself with girls…and some men, around the fringe of town, near the village where the collegiates would gather in dining halls for drinks and greasy food.  I, of course, had my nose to the books. Whenever he came to see me, he would laugh that he was waiting for me to fall in love with him someday. Although, he did not know that I already had…I was merely far too fearful to admit it.’”

         “Does he know now?” Diego inquired.

         “No…I swore to my _mamusia_ when I was a girl that I would never become involved with Azriel.  She thought he would only weigh me down in life as he was a comedian, never to take things seriously.  I had much difficulty disagreeing with her logic growing up. Now that he…is where he is, and is in the danger he is in, well—I see how cowardly that is.  To not embrace love when you feel it,” Lena sighed, tentatively brushing a teardrop away from her eye before anybody could witness it fall; and yet, Michelle notices, but doesn’t limelight it because she understands.

         “Not to interrupt, but I see barbed wiring through the trees.  We’re gettin’ close, folks,” Kele announced, and crouched down behind the thick tree trunks, the Catalysts and Lena following suit.  Soon, they were shielded behind brush, the chainlink fence separating them from the ghetto mere feet away.

         “Yes!” Lena exclaimed, and composed herself with a gravity to complement the circumstances.  “My _żołnierz_ , you must be on guard.  German officer foot traffic is heavy around the ghettos.  They monitor everybody who goes in and out. Now, I have forged papers for myself and Michelle to arrive into the ghetto disguised as my nurse; the rest of you must be on the lookout.  Wait for my signal; it will be a bird call, like this.”

          She demonstrated that of a call of a songbird, and everyone nodded; they would recognize the melody upon hearing it.

         “You’re only busting out Azriel and Liora?  What if we can rescue everybody? Knock out the soldiers, then boom—Jews, freed,” Zahra proposed.

         “That would be impossible.  Somebody would alert their high command…we would all be killed, or worse,” Lena shook her head vehemently.

         “Clearly you underestimate what we’ve been through, lady.  We’ll make it happen. You go save the love of your life,” Zahra winked, and signaled for everybody with the exception of Michelle to accompany her.

         Lena escorted Michelle to the entrance of the ghetto, where she handed over her papers to the guard posted up with a military weapon slung over his shoulder.  He narrowed his eyes at Lena, who remained levelheaded, and then at Michelle, whose forehead was peppered with sweat droplets in spite of the wintry weather. Nevertheless, the guard gave a clipped nod, and Lena jerked Michelle along, who was paralyzed beneath his menacing eye.

         Inside, her heartbeat having slowed from its restless hummingbird pace, Michelle gazed at the panoramic perspective of the ghetto.  The houses were makeshift and tumbledown with a billboard-sized sign that read “Ghetto!” with further German language describing what Michelle hypothesized was the location.  Few people strolled around, but the lion’s share were sat outside their ramshackle households, weak-kneed and faint-hearted as they studied the pair. The inhabitants were ailing and feeble, their eyes devoid of light.  The streets were littered with decomposing bodies that feral dogs slashed at.

          “My god, Lena…it’s—” Michelle gasped, too staggered to mourn.

          “Worse than you could have imagined?  Yes. It always is,” Lena interjected, her tone sorrowful, yet resigned.

          “Let’s just get out of here.  The sooner, the better,” Michelle sighed, averting her eyes from meeting that of the residents, afraid that if she did, the life would drain from her own.

          As if on cue, a trio of young girls came bounding around the bend, hands melded together as if their livelihoods depended on it.

         Lena recognized that they were Liora’s age, and broke away from Michelle to speak with them.

         “ _Guten abend!  Hast du Liora gesehen?_ ” she enquired, approaching benevolently.

         Michelle struggled to understand answer; when Lena returned, she quizzed, “What did they say?”

         “They haven’t seen her since this morning.  This worries me,” Lena reported back.

         Michelle grabbed onto Lena’s shoulders, enforcing that she face her, and admonished, “Lena, you have to have hope.  It’s the only thing that’s gotten me this far.”

         Out of her peripheral vision, Lena identified a familiar face, and shrieked, “ _Azriel!_ ”

         A man with a sandy blonde haircut and treetop irises came bounding towards the twosome at the call of his name and recognition of the voice behind it.  With arms outstretched, he bundled Lena into an embrace like that of a knit scarf around a frostbitten neck, and replied in Polish with ardor, “Lena! _Jak za tobą tęskniłem!_ ”

        “ _Chodź, musimy się spieszyć!”_ Lena frantically heeded with beholden teardrops swimming down her gelid cheeks.  “ _Gdzie jest_ Liora?”

         At the mention of Liora and the urgency of the circumstances, Michelle interjected, “What does she look like?  Liora?”

 _“Kto to jest?  Ona mówi po Angielsku?”_ Azriel asked with a quizzical brow cocked, standing nearest to Lena out of prudence towards Michelle’s motives.

       “This is my friend, Michelle.  She and a group of _Widerstand_ fighters…we have come for you and Liora.  For _all_ of you,” Lena assured him, clasping his hands tight-fittingly in her own.

       “Are you sure you can trust them?” Azriel inquired in his thick like molasses accent, glimpsing at Michelle.

       “They are the chance I have been searching for, Azriel,” Lena avowed to him.  

       Although he hesitated, Azriel eventually confessed to his niece’s description, “Liora, she…she has butterscotch hair in a crown of braid.  Her dress is tattered, but it is a faded lilac. Her eyes are bright blue. We _must_ find her, Lena.”

       “We will!  I promise you this.  We _will_ find our girl,” Lena pledged, beckoning him into a consoling clinch.

       With that, the trio stalked along the begrimed ghetto lanes like white-tailed fawns foraging for berries, hypervigilant to the eagle eye of any guardsmen.  Suddenly, there was a commotion transpiring out of the furthest corner of Michelle’s vision; a set of Nazi patrolmen lugging a schoolgirl on either side of her, white-knuckling her upper arms until they bruised.

        “Over there!  That could be her!  She’s being carried away by those German officers!” Michelle alerted Lena and Azriel, pointing wildly toward the furor.

         “Liora! _Pozbądźcie_ _się jej rąk!_ ” Azriel screeched, racing towards his niece and the pair of watchman.

         “Azriel! _No!_ ” Lena howled while she sparred against Michelle’s grip that held her back.

         As one patrolman manacled Liora, another upholstered his pistol and assaulted Azriel before he could meddle in the arrest.

        “Any minute now, Zahra…” Michelle fretfully mumbled to herself as Lena wept alongside her.

        As if on cue, Craig charged into the ghetto with a theived militarized weapon, bellowing, “COWBUNGA!  EAT THIS, NAZIS!”

       “You have got to be kidding me,” Michelle face-palmed as Craig and the remainder of the Catalysts ambushed the guardsmen.        

       “Get the women and children out first!  Husbands to follow!” Sean ordered, guiding families out toward the exit.

        Liora, having unfettered herself from the restraint of the Nazi soldiers, raced to Michelle, squeezing her as though she was her treasured teddy bear, and breathlessly, professed, “ _Uratowałeś mnie anioła stróża._ ”

        Michelle softheartedly returned the gesture of affection, and confoundedly enquired, “I…what did she say?”

        As the Catalysts and Kele conquered the patrolmen and the ghetto emptied itself, Azriel stepped behind Liora and placed an emotional hand upon her shoulder, translating, “She said ‘You have saved me, guardian angel.’  You have saved all of us, each of you. If there is anything we can do for you, you must tell us. We cannot stay here long.”

        Alaska was alongside Sean, ushering the final handful of children and their parents out toward their exodus.  Overhearing Azriel, Liora, and Michelle, she queried, “Lena mentioned to us that you might be able to help us find something…something valuable.  Do you know anything about the Light?”

  “Well, she is right here,” Azriel matter-of-factly answered as if it was already prominent.

      By then, the Catalysts and Kele had rallied around Azriel, Liora, and Lena.  Aleister pushed forward and erupted, “This is _preposterous_ !  Traveling across space and time, fighting our way through Nazi Germany, for what?   _A little girl!_ ”

       Lena became defensive, her forehead wrinkling like an accordion in befuddlement, “What is this mad man ranting about?”

       There was commotion amongst the lot, but Azriel’s unmistakable voice splintered through the wall of the maelstrom, “Liora…it means ‘God’s gift of light’.”

       “I hope this doesn’t mean what I think it means,” Diego tentatively muttered.

       “We must take the girl with us,” Estela blazoned, expression stony.

       Abruptly and without hesitation, Lena lurched forward and cloaked Liora within her arms, avowing, “ _Nie dotkniesz jej!_ You will not touch her!”

       Tumult detonated again throughout the Catalysts, Kele, and their opposition: Lena and Azriel.  Liora tugged on Lena’s dress, and coaxed Lena, “ _Mamusia_ …it is okay.  I will go.”

       There was a silence that cascaded down across everyone like steady rainfall.  Jake was the first to acknowledge it, and quizzed, “‘Mom’? I thought you said this kid was Az’s niece.”

       Lena was kneeling beside Liora now, teardrops staining the cotton of her plaid dress.  Voice cracking like eggshells, she stuttered, “I-I—we tried to protect her…”

       Liora swiveled on her heels to face the Catalysts and Kele, and with matured serenity, promised, “I can take you home.”

       “Liora Emilka Margolis, you will not!  I am taking you with me to Janówka at once.  We will be safe in the forest,” Azriel ruptured with fervency, referencing the timberland where dozens of Jews camped to evade Nazi soldiers and concentration encampments.

       “Azriel…my love…she is going with them,” Lena advocated for Liora and the Catalysts’ and Kele’s agenda, her hands on either shoulder of Azriel’s, her eyes boring in him with earnestness.  “We cannot force her into the runaway livelihood of wild men. It is not right. It is not what a parent would do.”

        “For what it’s worth,” Quinn spoke up, her tone drizzled in sympathy.  “we’ll take care of her. We know good people.”

        With nods from Lena and Azriel in assent, Liora clasped onto Alaska’s hand, and the Catalysts and Kele veered a mile away from Liora’s parents before opening a rift.  Instantaneously, they were transported back to where the Clockmaker, her comrades, and Yvonne anticipated their arrival.

         “Oh, _mes amis_ !   _Merci les cieux vous êtes en sécurité!_ ” Yvonne lunged forward and gathered those nearest to her in close-fitting, compressed embrace.

         “The Light.  At last,” the Clockmaker breathed, eyes illuming at the sight of Liora.

    “What are you going to do with her?” Grace interrogated prudently.

        “This…is a complicated answer,” the Clockmaker responded, gaping at the Light’s presence.  “The Light must merge with planet Earth.”

        “Listen, we promised we’d protect her.  This ‘merge’…what does it mean for Liora?” Alaska asked while she shielded Liora behind her legs, a precautionary hand on her arm.

   “Liora’s presence on Earth has come to an end.  Her creation was not made to last a lifetime. Her spirit will be here, amongst us all,” the Clockmaker elucidated plainly, fingers steepled in front of her chest.

       “That’s some horse shit if I’ve ever heard it,” Jake rolled his ultramarine eyes, narrowing them unto the three Anachronists.

        “Yeah, man!  She’s just a kid!” Craig roared, his virile voice resounding, face scrunched in dissent.

        “If I may, my friends…I want help you,” Liora chimed in, stepping out from behind Alaska.  “Help us all. Even if that means becoming something other than what I am now.”

        Sean lowered himself to his knees, down at her level, and assured her, “You don’t have to do this, Liora, you know that?  We can find another way to save us.”

        “No…I must,” she shook her head, and the Catalysts, Kele, and Yvonne knew within them that she had made up her mind.  “Tell my _tatús_ and _mamusia_ …tell them that the Light inside of me has only grown because of them.  Because of what they have sacrificed for me.”

        “Anybody else feeling their allegories acting up?  Just me?” Zahra murmured, wiping at her eyes with her leather jacket sleeve.

        “We have no Time to waste,” the Clockmaker extended her hand out to Liora.

        “Liora… _thank you_.  You’re braver than each of us combined,” Alaska displayed her gratitude, refraining from sniffling in front of those she was to be strong before.

        “I am not brave, Alaska.  I am only doing what is right.   _There is no courage in the common sense of loving others._ ”

   Before them, the Clockmaker touched her palm to Liora’s forehead, and she imploded into a lagoon of brilliant illumination; the choppy waters a bleached white, her physical form dissolving.  Tears spilled over from their ducts as something otherworldly; something celestial unfolded before them.  
        “I-I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed something so…so _beautiful_ ,” Quinn whispered breathlessly, her hands enfolded together over her heartbeat.  
        Sean swiveled around to wrap his arm around Alaska’s shoulders like a silk ribbon  around a Christmas gift, but halted in his tracks when he identified her concentrated, yet faraway stare.  
       “Alaska?  Are you…?” he asked, trailing off for Alaska to fill in his sentence.  
       “The Light—it’s saying something to me.  Like a whisper. I can hear it,” she finally spoke, mouth dry and lips cracked.  
       “Are you gonna leave us hanging here?” Diego questioned rhetorically.  
       “This wouldn’t be the first bizarre thing to happen to me this week anyway,” Michelle  
       “It says…it says it wants to bring us home,” Alaska translated.  
       “‘Home’ as in _home_ home?” Raj quizzed, hopefulness peppered into his tone like seasoning atop a tenderized roast.  
       “No…not us…” Alaska mumbled as she continued to receive intelligence from the foreign source.  “It wants to bring _me_ home to make everything whole again.”  
       “What does that mean?  Alaska, is there something we don’t know?” Sean questioned rapidly, his tone crescendoing with consternation.

       “It keeps telling me that I’m the missing piece.  That this will all be over soon.”  
       Without further interrogating, the Catalysts, Kele, Yvonne, and the Clockmaker and her cronies watched steadily as the Light freckled the sky with an daybreak sunrise of clementines and lavenders.

 

_Come home, Alaska._

 

_Come home._


End file.
